


The Only Choice

by Aviss



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 09:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviss/pseuds/Aviss
Summary: Milk of the poppy love confessions are not always the best idea, Jaime is about to learn.





	The Only Choice

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom, at least in English, which I find funny cause I've been shipping these two together since I read the books over a decade ago, but well, late to the party but happy to be here.

The enemy was slowly advancing towards them, the broken line of shambling wights more terrifying for their lack of order and discipline, their rotting carcasses moving with inexorable finality. Interspersed among the rank and file of reanimated corpses were White Walkers, mounted on their undead horses and directing the hordes of wights to cause as much damage as possible, replenishing their ranks as they advanced. 

The Walkers were Jaime and Brienne's foes, same as every other person wielding Valyrian steel; the foot soldiers had dragonglass tipped steel for the wights but had been instructed not to engage the Walkers, lest their swords crumpled into icy dust and they were left defenceless and overrun with enemies. They stood there with Winterfell at their back, thousands of unlikely defenders shoulder to shoulder, wildling and crow, northerner and southerner, Vale knight and Tully Riverlander next to Lannisters and Starks and Targaryen, Unsullied and Dothraki, and so many smallfolk, all ready to protect the castle, its halls filled with the children and the old people of the North, most women also armed and ready to fight for their lives and die like Northerners if needed.

The cry of the dragons rent the expectant calm before the battle, and above them, Drogon and Raeghal soared in the darkness, their King and Queen riding them against their fallen brother and the Night King, the first explosion spurring everyone into movement.

For the next hours, days, lifetimes, there was nothing but blood, fire, and steel.

And death. So much death.

…

The first thing Jaime noticed when he woke up was the pain. 

His entire being felt like a mass of burning, tearing pain; from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet everything ached. That wasn't what surprised him, the fact that he woke up at all was the shock. 

He had really not expected to survive the war, his last memories of the fight were hazy and tinged with orange and red, the smell of burning flesh and the screams and clash of steel blanketing him. He had lost sight of Brienne early in the fight, the push and pull of bodies around them making it impossible to stay together, but he'd managed to stay close to Pod, had been perfectly positioned to see a Walker about to strike him and had, fool that he was, put himself in its way, his only thought that Brienne would never forgive him if he let her squire die. 

That was the last thing he remembered, though he had obviously come on top of that particular fight.

He opened his eyes, his surroundings blurry and undefined in the dim candlelight. He blinked a couple of times, that tiny movement all the exertion he felt capable of at the moment, and the figure closer to him resolved itself on the substantial form of Brienne of Tarth, sitting uncomfortably on a chair next to Jaime's cot. 

He felt a breath shudder out of him, that was the one and only question he had, answered: Brienne had survived the battle, and not obviously injured if she was there by his side. And if they were there at all, that must mean they had won, the living had defeated the dead. They still had another war to wage, one he was looking forward to even less, if the Starks and Targaryens didn't lop off his head now the Great War was over, but it was too much to think about when he was in pain, and Jaime closed his eyes and let the darkness take him again.

…

The next time Jaime woke he was still aware of the pain, though it was a distant murmur, thanks to the milk of the poppy, instead of the all-consuming roar of the previous time. Brienne was still sitting on the same uncomfortable chair, clad in tunic and breeches instead of armour, her large hands clasping Jaime's left and her eyes staring unseeing out of the window. What could she be looking at in the darkness, Jaime didn't know, but the press of her calloused hands against his was warm and comforting. 

He opened his mouth to speak and found himself unable to, throat too dry for sound, so he gently squeezed his fingers drawing attention to the fact he was conscious again. Brienne released his hand as if it has been on fire, her entire face flushing as her eyes focused on him. His hand felt cold immediately.

"Jaime, you're awake," she said, her voice soft and relieved, her beautiful eyes shining with elation.

"Brienne," he said or tried to, only a painful croak left his throat and she stood from the chair and picked up a glass of water. One of Brienne's hands was over his shoulders an instant later, pulling him up while she helped him drink some water, immediately soothing his parched throat. "What--"

"Don't try to speak just yet, Jaime," she said, taking the chair again as soon as he was done drinking. He had a million questions this time, but obediently closed his mouth and just quirked an eyebrow, a gesture he had no doubt she would interpret correctly. "The Night King is dead, and the army of wights he brought from beyond the wall is being burned as we speak. You were injured shortly before the end of the fighting while in combat with a Walker, it's a miracle you survived," her voice and expression turned hard there as if the idea of his death filled her with unspeakable fury. Or maybe it was his survival when so many others had surely died. "Pod was the one who found you and brought you back to the castle, you've been unconscious for two days."

He would have to reward Pod for saving him; it seemed Podrick Payne was the best thing to ever happen to the Lannister brothers. "Tyrion?" he asked, concerned now at the absence of his brother by his sick bed. 

"Alive," Brienne said, and he felt relief flooding him. He had been angry with his brother for a long time after his father's death, but they were the only ones left of their family except for Cersei, he needed him to be alive and well. "But he was grievously injured, Lady Sansa is tending to him."

It had come as a surprise how close Tyrion and Sansa got during the weeks previous to the battle in Winterfell, but it had become a rare sight to find one without the other those last days. 

"The King and Queen also survived, and so did the Stark siblings," she continued before he could ask more questions. "Though Raeghal was lost when they took out the ice dragon. We lost countless soldiers, Unsullied and Dothraki, and some of the houses of the North lost everything. Tormund Giansbane gave his life for King Jon's," the Wildling who had become infatuated with Brienne and was always staring lasciviously at her, much to Jaime's amusement and her mortification. He had been a good fighter and leader, and Jaime didn't know whether to be jealous of him for dying with such honour. "Clegane died, and so did Dondarrion." She finally looked down, her clear eyes clouded with grief. "We've lost too many people, Jaime, too many good people killed. And we can only rest for a moon before we have to march south and fight again lest your sister attacks us first." 

He felt a pang of regret at her words, at the reminder of Cersei, of the life he had left behind in King's Landing and the child growing inside of her. 

His child, Cersei had said and negotiated her betrothal to Euron Greyjoy in exchange for his ships in the next breath, her old rants and complains of being whored for power ignored in her own pursuit of power. It had been in that instant that Jaime had really seen her for the first time, had really seen himself by her side for the first time. Cersei had always traded what she had for power, and the more fool him for not realizing sooner that theirs had been just another trade, not a love story. Cersei had given him her body and her sweet words, and in exchange, he had given his soul, his life and his honour, had become whore, breeding dog and executioner when needed.

He might have never realized had he not seen Brienne in the Riverlands, felt the happiness and elation of being in her presence even for a short time, had he not spoken to her about the mission and seen her extraordinary eyes darken when he told her he was proud of her, had he not felt his pulse quicken and his breath shortening when she told him she had seen his honour. But he had, and on his return to King's Landing, the Sept of Baelor still smoking in the distance, it had been Brienne of Tarth what had occupied his thoughts. 

Looking back he knew it was at that time Cersei had felt his detachment first, and lured him back with the promise of having their affair out in the open, of finally not having to deny their love. He had been a fool to believe it, to believe in her. 

And then, once Jaime was tied to her again by the child in her belly, she had promised herself to someone else just to cling to the throne, not that she would keep it for long. "One of the dragons survived, did it not? Then it will be a short war, I'm sure," he said, remembering the battle of Highgarden and how quickly Drogon had decimated his men. He still had nightmares about that field of fire.

She looked at him with horror etched on her face, and Jaime felt a swell of emotion he had been unwilling to even name before. Only Brienne, the fierce and honourable knight that she was, would feel that way for an enemy that would not hesitate to burn them all alive had they the means. 

He would later blame the milk of the poppy and the exhaustion of his healing body for his lack of restraint and his loose tongue, but at that moment nothing could stop him from taking Brienne's hand with his, lacing their fingers together and pressing a quick kiss on it. 

It was such an unexpected action Brienne was too slow to react, staring at him slack-jawed. "Ser Jaime--"

"You really feel for them," he whispered in wonderment. "You know my sweet sister would burn us all in our sleep like Mad Aerys wanted if only she could, and yet you feel for them, the sell-swords who have taken her coin to kill us and the Lannister armies who have ravaged the land on her command."

She really was the finest knight Westeros had ever produced. "Nobody deserves to die like that, there is no honour in it."

Jaime smiled at her, the most beautiful person he had ever seen with her mannish body and ugly face, her huge lips and small breasts, her crooked teeth and short flaxen hair, the callused hands and muscled thighs and the most stunningly gorgeous innocent eyes. She was an ugly wench like he had called her when they just met, and yet she was the most beautiful woman in the world to him. "That's the reason I love you," he declared, dreamily, and it took him a few seconds to realize what he's said. 

He saw the words register in her mind and how her expression suddenly closed off, her face draining of blood. Brienne pulled her hand roughly from his grasp, straightened in her chair and glared frostily at him. "No, you don't."

"Oh, but I do," he insisted, because of all the reactions he had imagined, horrified rejection or a gentle and kind refusal to preserve their friendship, outright denial had not been one of them. 

She stood up so forcefully the chair clattered back, and the expression on her face was one he had not seen directed at him since the first days of their acquaintance. She was glaring disgustedly at him, her face flushed with indignation, her mouth pressed into a flat line. "You don't, you can't, and I don't appreciate your japes." she was at the door before Jaime had the chance to react. "I thought you were better than this, Ser, I was obviously wrong." 

What in Seven Hells had just happened?

…

Jaime waited for her to return once she had calmed down, still wondering what he'd said to send her into such a towering rage. 

No, that wasn't true. He knew what he'd said, but he had never imagined a declaration of love to be received with that kind of loathing. It made him wonder what was she so averse to, was it the idea of love or was it Jaime what had provoked the reaction?

He knew he had little to recommend him as a prospect to anyone; if he survived the coming war he would likely still be put on trial for his crimes. And even if he wasn't, the chances of him coming out of this with his life, his title, and the Lannister fortune were slim to none. If there was still a Lannister fortune to be had. 

He was little more than an ageing cripple with fading good looks and a tattered reputation, reviled by most and with a price on his head. But that had never mattered to Brienne, not to the only person who had still believed he had honour.

 _Not anymore_ , he thought bitterly as the hours and days passed without seeing her. _She doesn't trust or believe you anymore._

…

By the time Samwell Tarly deemed him strong enough to stand and leave his bed, two days had gone by without him seeing hair nor hide of Brienne, and Jaime had worked himself into a righteous fury. Beneath it, he knew, was the hurt of the rejection her actions signified, and which he would probably feel once the burning rage consuming him was extinguished. 

Rejection he would have easily coped with, painful as it was; he knew he had few qualities to endear him to the honourable Maid of Tarth beyond his looks and the camaraderie they had built during those long months travelling together. She was the one person who had seen him at his lowest: beaten and filthy, crying in pain without dignity or pride, as far removed from the knight he had aspired to be when he was young as it was possible. No, he had not expected reciprocation, much as he would have hoped for it. It was her brutal denial, her refusal to even consider he could have feelings for her beyond a cruel jape as if he was the same as every other man who had ever mocked her for her looks, what had enraged him so. As if the years of trust and friendship meant nothing to her, and he had suddenly turned from Jaime into the Kingslayer she had only seen at the beginning of their trip south together.

Jaime knew he should wait until he was calmer to look for her, he had a temper and when roused he turned cruel, he should not inflict it on Brienne, who was probably the best fighter in Westeros with a sword but couldn't bandy words because of her straightforward character, if he wanted their friendship to survive. And he would have had he not crossed paths with her, quite by accident, on his way to Tyrion's room. 

He was slowly shuffling towards the room assigned to his brother for recovery, the coldness of Winterfell's corridors and his injured body combining to make him feel every one of his years and darkening his mood further, when she came out of one of the rooms along the corridor. The sound of the door made him look up and there she was, as big and homely and perfect as always, frozen at the sight of him like a rabbit facing a lion. She stiffened the moment her eyes landed on his, her entire body tense with fight or flight reflexes, her eyes huge on her face. 

Before she could retreat back in the room or run away from him, Jaime hurried in her direction as much as he could, calling her. "Lady Brienne, a word," he could see in her barely contained flinch that his voice was harsh and cold, betraying his fury, and had to make a conscious effort to soften it. "If it pleases you."

She still hesitated, and Jaime was about to push when Brienne nodded and opened the door she had just come from revealing her rooms. Jaime followed her inside and closed the door, leaning against it while she retreated to the other side of the room. Brienne's quarters were as spartan and bare as the ones Jaime had been assigned, just a bed and a chair next to a small writing desk, the fire burning merrily in the hearth.

"I am glad to see you fully recovered, Ser Jaime," she began when the silence in the room had turned oppressive, her voice soft and sincere and her eyes averted. Her walls were up, higher than the Wall itself, and her entire body was braced for a hit. 

At that moment he wanted to hit her, not physically because, in spite of his many monstrous acts, he at least had never struck a woman in anger, but wanted to wound her in the same way she had done when she had left his rooms two days ago. He reined on his tongue and settled for a snide, yet not poisonous reply. "I have missed you these past days, my lady," 

"I have been helping in the castle, there is much to be done before we march again," she told her feet and the rug under them. 

"Of course, my lady," he kept his voice calm, fist clenched tightly and teeth grinding. "I expect you are in high demand, being Lady Sansa's most trusted advisor and her sworn sword." she darted a quick look at him in surprise, averting her eyes again immediately. "And yet I have missed you, my only visitor aside from the servants bringing me sustenance. I had never known a convalescence so dull, without the simplest conversation."

She didn't say anything, though he could see her face blanching, a look of regret and guilt in her eyes. 

"I don't want to keep you from your duties, my lady, I was on the way to visit my brother and was fortunate to happen upon you, and there is something I needed to tell you regarding our last conversation." She finally looked at him, the guilt wiped from her expression and replaced with her stubborn anger. She opened her mouth but he beat it to it; he was angry as well. "It's not for you to deny my feelings," he hissed, the frustration and pain of the past days bursting finally forth. "I said I loved you and I meant it, and you don't get to deny it. You can accept it or not, reciprocate it or not, but the truth of my feelings is my own."

She had paled with each word spilling from his mouth, her own compressing into a thin line, practically bloodless. "Ser Jaime--"

"You are a great beast of a woman and an ugly wench, _and I love you_ ," he pressed on, beyond shame or pride, he was committed to getting everything he had wanted to say in the past days out. "Not in spite of it but because of it, because you are also stubbornly honourable and trustworthy and extraordinary with a sword in your hand, and kind in spite of all the unkindness dealt to you, and willing to forgive and believe the best of everyone, even the Kingslayer, and risk your own life to return his honour."

She took a step forward, still pale but her expression softening minutely. "You can't."

"I can and I do," he insisted, irked by her stubbornness. "Why would I not? I have loved only once before, and I spent my life denying that love and allowing it to turn me into a monster. Now I'm free of it and free to acknowledge a love I can actually be proud of, one that has made me become a better person, and I won't allow you to deny it."

She remained silent as if all words had fled her, her eyes impossibly big and impossibly blue on her face, and as expressive as always. In them, Jaime could see the play of emotions, the hurt and disbelief and sympathy, and threaded there a sliver of hope that made him feel that same terrible emotion. 

"I told you once there were no men like me, and yet you lump me with every other man who has ever mocked and lied to you," he continued, letting his anger and hurt shape his words. "Have I ever lied to you, Brienne? I might tease and annoy you, but have I mocked you cruelly since Harrenhal? Did I ever lie to you, even before that?" She was shaking her head, still not looking away from him. "I'm not a good man and I have nothing to recommend me to you; I will probably not survive this coming war, and if I do I will have to face justice for all my misdeeds. Even If I came out of that alive, I have no fortune or reputation and I'm short a hand. I don't expect you to reciprocate it, I'll commend you for your good sense if you don't, but don't ever tell me what I feel or not."

He felt drained once he had finished speaking, all the anger spent leaving only the hurt it was trying to cover; Brienne was still frozen in place, staring at him with that same disbelieving expression, her mouth open but no sound coming out of it. 

"I used to think you knew me best out of everyone in Westeros, even better than my sister, but just like her, you don't know me at all."

She flinched at that, and Jaime didn't feel the vindication he expected, he just felt tired, sad and guilty for hurting her. He turned and opened the door when her voice stopped him. "But why would you love _me_?"

He looked back with a sad smile. "I told you, we don't choose whom we love. But if we did, I would have still chosen you."

…

Jaime knew, of course, that she would not let things stand that way for long. Other women would have, but not Brienne, not his wench. She would not be able to ignore the fact that she'd wounded him when he had let her seen his pain so clearly. 

It was just another of the reasons he loved her, that conscience which would never let her rest while she had wronged someone, even if she had been wronged in turn, and Jaime was aware that his words had also hurt her, had known even before he said them and yet that hadn't stopped him. 

He really wasn't a nice man.

He was not expecting the knock to his door, if the heavy pounding on it could be given such a gentle name, to come barely a minute after he had closed it, though. He opened it and let her in wordlessly. 

Brienne looked flushed and was panting a bit, as if she had run the whole way between their rooms. She also looked determined, her eyes narrowed and her jaw set. Nothing to indicate whether she was going to kiss or kill him.

Jaime waited her out, arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the furthest wall with a nonchalance he wasn't feeling at all. 

"I don't care for fortune or reputation," Brienne finally began, and that was not what he had expected to hear. "And you _know_ I don't care about your hand, not when you lost it because of me. You are a good man, at least to me, and honourable, and I'm sorry I hurt you because I forgot there are _no men like you, just you_."

He felt himself relax at that, uncrossing his arms and letting the tension flow out him, a smile on his lips when he recognized her words. "I apologize as well, my lady, I was unfairly cruel to you."

She moved further inside and on a bold move that surprised him, sat on the bed and stared at him until Jaime moved to sit next to her, feeling her warmth next to him but not yet touching. "Yes you were, and so was I," she admitted softly. "You were right to be angry; I can't dictate your feelings," she took his hand in hers, and when Jamie looked at her saw her face blotchy and appealingly flustered, her lower lip trapped between her crooked teeth, swollen and bitten red. "But I can and I do reciprocate them."

It was everything he wanted, and that he knew he didn't deserve. Not really. But he was selfish enough to hold on to such a precious gift. "Brienne--" 

"How could I not? You are the only man who has respected me as a knight, you trusted me with your secrets and your honour, and protected me when I couldn't protect myself, and I--"

He never knew what else she intended to say, instead, he learned how soft her lips were and how they moved against his, he learned the taste and feel of her mouth and how quick her breathy moans could make his heart pound, how her tongue twined with his when she granted him access to her mouth, and how easily her body tumbled to the bed, under his. 

"Brienne," they needed to stop kissing lest he forgot himself and ended up dishonouring her, when what he really wanted to do was tie himself to her in front of Gods and men, but her lips and body were a drug, and he really wasn't a good man after all. "We shouldn't."

"Jaime," she moaned against his mouth, her hands tight on his back, pressing him even harder against her body, her long legs open on either side if his hips, cradling him. "I love you. _You were always my choice_."

With a sigh, Jaime melted against her, not intending to ever stop. 

The Gods could wait, they had waited enough.

...


End file.
